<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>24 Hours In Arkham by DittyWrites</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296798">24 Hours In Arkham</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DittyWrites/pseuds/DittyWrites'>DittyWrites</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gotham Rogues Drabbles [25]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Companionable Snark, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Humor, Slice of Life, Threats of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:54:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,274</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DittyWrites/pseuds/DittyWrites</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught by the Batman and locked up in Arkham for his heinous crimes; follow the life of Jonathan Crane across a full day as he adjusts to his incarceration within the asylum and the familiar residents he encounters.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Gotham Rogues Drabbles [25]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/296357</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>24 Hours In Arkham</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was my entry for the Arkham Zine which can be found here and it completely free:</p><p>https://pi3shark.itch.io/arkham-gallery-zine</p><p>Absolutely full to the brim with a series of talented writers and artists, i highly recommend you give it a look xx</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Saturday 4:00am</p><p>Hindsight was a cruel mistress and as the doors of the asylum ground to a squeaky halt behind him, Crane mulled over the errors of the evening. He was an intelligent man but even he was not omnipotent, and the incompetence of others often plagued him. The silent alarm had been his downfall, a silent alarm which he had been guaranteed would be disarmed before his arrival at the office block. Money had exchanged hands for such a service, despite his limited resources, and as soon as he escaped this place, that money would be reclaimed with an additional pound of flesh for his troubles.</p><p>Recent difficulties with procuring a residence for the production and testing of his toxin had deprived him of the pleasure of a long-term test subject but, with a little persuasion, that would change soon. The very man he needed was held within these asylum walls and while he would have preferred to have this meeting in isolation, the asylum would suffice for now.</p><p>But that was an issue for later.</p><p>At the moment, he had more pressing matters.</p><p>For example, the broken wrist which he was subtly cradling against his thin chest, unwilling to show the pain which the throbbing joint was causing him as he steeled his expression into blank contempt, a gift from his captors for his crimes.</p><p>“Move, Crane.” A gruff voice behind his left ear demanded and the words were accompanied by a jostle which sent a burst of pain through his presumably bruised ribs.</p><p>“Brute.” </p><p>“You caused a lot of damage tonight, Crane. Some of those innocent people might never recover from the horrors you’ve inflicted on them.”</p><p>“Then it was you who failed to save them.” Unable to resist needling his tormentor, Crane hurled the accusation with venom and satisfaction flickered within his gut as the dark knight's lips set into a thin line.</p><p>Another push for his troubles and Crane bit at his inner lip to hold the grunt of pain at bay.</p><p>“Who do you have for me tonight then?” Standing behind the safety glass, the receptionist for the evening was a familiar sight for the eyes. </p><p>Miss Waters. Darlene to her friends. Husband deceased via heart failure; she had no children. No known phobias but has demonstrated an obvious aversion to blood on several occasions.</p><p>“Good evening, doctor.” She inclined her head in greeting to Crane and while he would usually be tempted to return her pleasantries, he was in no mood at the moment and his eyes briefly flicked to her in acknowledgement. Raising a brow at his silence, she continued to smile at him in a friendly manner. “I'm sure your usual cell is free; I'll make sure and say to guard Jones to put you in there.”</p><p>Crane had never truly worked out if her kindness with the inmates was borne of a defence mechanism to protect herself during riots and attempted escapes or if she truly did possess the level of empathy needed to care for monsters. Regardless, she had already outlasted four different wardens and did not seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. It was almost admirable. Even he, who possessed no great love for any creature of this earth, had to confess that he would be reluctant to kill her unless it proved necessary.</p><p>“Patients name is Jonathan Crane.” Miss Waters muttered to herself, scrawling the information down as she processed him. “Patient number 2193...”</p><p>“He'll need a doctor.” Batman interjected once her scribblings had some to an end.</p><p>“A doctor? Why?” Miss Waters could not hide the mild boredom in her tone as she cycled through her usual script and her gaze scanned Crane's body to seek out the injury, as she had many times before.</p><p>“Broken wrist.”</p><p>“Oh. Okay, and how was it broken?”</p><p>Batman gave her a pointed look.</p><p>“I need it for the paperwork. It's a new policy” She pointed down at her clipboard sheepishly. “Warden Sharp insists.”</p><p>“It was me.” Robin interjected. “A mad dog is normally put down so he's lucky I just snapped his wrist inste-”</p><p>“Robin.” The warning in the dark knight's tone was unmistakeable.</p><p>Following the admission from the bright yet scowling figure, a loud bark of laughter broke up the conversation and Crane turned in place just in time to catch the sight of Harvey Dent disappearing around the corner, flanked by two guards.</p><p>Shaking off the mild irritation, Crane returned to the conversation at hand.</p><p>“Okay, Batman. If you wait here, I’ll buzz for the guards to deliver him to his cell.” Turning to Crane, she continued. “Fresh clothing will be provided in your cell and I will alert the doctor to visit you as soon as possible. That okay, Doctor?”</p><p>Turning his head to the side, Crane answered her.</p><p>“Acceptable.”</p><p>“If you keep from scaring the guards as you settle in then i'll have the latest psychiatric journals left in the rec room for you tomorrow. They just came in yesterday and I know you do enjoy your little creature comfo-”</p><p>“Are we finished here?” Batman cut across her speech, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the courtesy which his prisoner was being afforded.</p><p>“Sure, hon.” An abrasive buzzing cut through the air as she alerted the guards to her needs. “They'll be here in a sec.”</p><p>Before any further jibes could be exchanged between himself and his captors, Crane found his arms being seized between two sets of hands as he was led through the familiar hallways of the asylum towards the high-security wing which would be his home for the foreseeable future. The bright lights above glared at him as he passed beneath, walking through the processing room without hesitation. There was no point in searching him as the Bat was known for being thorough in his captures. He had taken everything from the spare vials of toxin he kept sewn into the lining of his costume to the spare change which had been rattling around his pocket.</p><p>The toxin he could understand, as irritating as that was, but the money? That was a pettiness which he had noticed the Bat indulge in often enough for it to be a trait.</p><p>As Crane strode past the glass panelling of the other cells, he held his head high and did not steal any glances to assess which other rogues he would be keeping company with. That would be the focus of the morning once he had established himself. One of his guards coughed to break the silence as he held his pass against the security panel and waited for the door to unlock.</p><p>“Move, inmate.”</p><p>The guard on his left muttered and made a move to push him forward into the cell but a sharp glance caused him to falter. There were few guards who would dare to antagonist the Scarecrow, particularly when in full regalia, and Crane walked into the cell of his own accord.</p><p>“Your jumpsuit will come when facilities arrive in the morning.”</p><p>Crane did not acknowledge the comment and as the doors to his cell slid smoothly shut, a loud click echoed as the electromagnet locked the door into place.</p><p>Eyes sweeping across the room, Crane was disgusted by the familiarity of it. Miss Waters was correct in her assessment though; he did prefer this room to others.</p><p>The fluorescent white shade which everything in the asylum was coated in had dulled over time to something less offensive to the eye. The only other colour within the room being the black specks which made up the design of the linoleum on the floor and the frame of the cot. </p><p>It was a grim sight, uncomfortable in its uniformity and forced sterility, but he was accustomed to it. </p><p>Glancing to ensure he was not being watched, Crane dropped to his knees and slid his thin fingers along the linoleum of the floor until it hit upon a slight groove. Slipping a finger within the groove, he pulled back the flooring there to expose the wood below and, with a deft hand, he lifted the broken piece of wood and slid his hand into the small space. Feeling the edges of a plastic bag he lifted it free and examined it.</p><p>Perfectly untouched.</p><p>Opening the bag, he was met with the sight of his stash of notebooks and writing utensils which had been created and cultivated over the long periods which he had spent within the asylum. Months of smuggling and bargaining, all held within a flimsy plastic bag. </p><p>Pleased with the haul, he extracted the bag and slipped it under his cot away from any prying eyes.</p><p>Cell inspections were never conducted in Arkham while the cell was occupied. It was never worth the hassle it created.</p><p>Satisfied with all he had found Crane took a moment to stretch out his aching muscles, wincing as a ‘pop’ in his shoulder brought intense pain followed by a shaky relief. He had evaded the Bat for a respectable amount of time, but his thin frame had taken several hits from the environment as he attempted escape. </p><p>Taking a resentful look at the uncomfortable cot which he was stuck with, two inches too short to fit his long frame, he dropped into it with little grace and as his head hit the thin pillow, he was quick to fall into fitful sleep.</p><p>Saturday Morning 8:00</p><p>When it came to awaking in Arkham there were only two options, either you found yourself dragged from sleep by a foolish guard on a power trip, or you were jerked into consciousness by the fresh hell which was the natural ambience of the asylum.</p><p>Today Crane was treated to the latter.</p><p>He was unsure who was screaming in rage just down the hallway from his cell but he immediately came to the decision that if he came across them over the course of the day, he was going to make a conscious effort to snap their neck for ripping him from blessed unconsciousness. However, before he could allow his thoughts to fester, he took note of the jumpsuit which had been delivered to his cell at some point during the night.</p><p>“Great.” His voice sounded hoarse even to his own ears, and he rubbed at the column of his throat as he vacated the cot.</p><p>Grunting, he bent over to snatch the jumpsuit up from the floor and disappeared behind the segmented area of the cell which gave inmates privacy to use the bathroom. Changing quickly, he carefully removed his blood-flecked clothing from his body with some satisfaction as he pulled the jumpsuit up his legs and slipped his arms inside. Popping it into place, he was amused to find that they had managed to find one which did not leave inches of his wrists and ankles exposed. Zips had been barred from all clothing several years previously after Joker had successfully removed the zipping from his jumpsuit, filed the edges down, and used the newly created weapon to almost decapitate one of the guards in a show of unbridled brutality.</p><p>His musings were cut short by the appearance of a guard at his cell door.</p><p>“Breakfast time, inmate.”</p><p>x-x-x-x-x</p><p>Breakfast was uneventful. </p><p>Porridge was the foodstuff deemed most suitable to meet the needs of all in terms of both nutrition and, Crane suspected, price. Therefore, it was the only breakfast option. Customisation, when allowed, was limited to the choice of one small sachet of sugar or salt for additional flavouring. Having been raised with very little in terms of culinary experience and possessing no sweet tooth, Crane did not mind this too much and was one of the few to actively choose salt when presented with the option.</p><p>The additional painkillers which were provided with his meal to alleviate the pain in his wrist until the doctor could see him were also very welcome.</p><p>Seated alone yet nestled within the general chaos of the dining hall, the only interesting information he could gather from tuning in to the general chatter was that other maximum-security inmates enjoying Arkham hospitality at the moment included Dent, Nygma, and Ivy. He had hoped to have his wrist bandaged before breakfast but two of the in-house medical doctors as well as three nurses were lost in a recent riot with another doctor reportedly refusing to return to work.</p><p>For once, Crane did not appreciate the understaffing.</p><p>Breakfast consumed; he was currently on route to the Arkham recreation room. The higher-profile inmates enjoyed a separate rec-room away from regular inmates due to their inability to ‘play nice’ and the seclusion was a welcome change as it allowed him to indulge in his work more easily. </p><p>Entering the room, he immediately set out on a familiar path. </p><p>His first stop was always the bookshelves, to select some literature for him to enjoy until something more interesting came along to capture his attention. Finding very little to meet his interest he picked a well-worn copy of Moby Dick from the shelf and moved on. His long legs carrying him to his preferred high-backed chair which sat along one of the walls towards the rear of the room; a perfect vantage point for him to observe others without being too overt about it. Plus, there was a small table which was bolted to the floor in front of the seat and it was the perfect size for the odd game of chess or chequers depending on his opponent.</p><p>The availability of engaging games within Arkham was absolutely bare bones.</p><p>Juvenile games like Twister had been taken away after an inmate tore the plastic arrow from the spin board and attempted to lodge it in the throat of another inmate; not that Crane missed this particular game as his dignity often refused to allow him to take part. Games involving dice had been removed due to an unfortunate suicide involving an inmate self-inserting dice down his throat until he choked to death, and any game involving sporting gear had been removed in a hail of blood and rage.</p><p>It was dire.</p><p>Chess and draughts were all that remained with the pieces of each game being made of soft-plastic or foam and dramatically oversized to ensure that they could not be inserted into any orifices.</p><p>“Well, well, well,” a drawling tone dragged him from his thoughts, “look what the Bat dragged in.”</p><p>Glancing upwards from his book to look at Ivy, Crane could not keep the sour look from his face.</p><p>“Pamela.” He greeted her, venom in his eyes.</p><p>“Johnny-boy.” She levelled his gaze with her own, unflinching. “How’s the wrist? I heard it was broken by a little boy.”</p><p>“How’s Harleen?” Crane bit back, unwilling to give her the rise she was looking for. “Last I saw her she was holding up the Fifth National with her one true love.”</p><p>“She is a grown woman who is entitled to do as she pleases.” Ivy replied coolly, the twitching of her jaw the only giveaway to the nerve Crane had struck.</p><p>“Hurts though, doesn’t it? That rejection? The fear that you have given the last of your humanity to a woman who will nev-”</p><p>“How does the Scarecrow feel to have his wrist broken by a flying monkey?” A third voice joined the fray, cutting across Crane, and the obnoxiousness was unmistakable.</p><p>“Very witty.” Crane cracked a smile which only added to the sourness of his expression as he inclined his head to Nygma. He turned back to Ivy as he waved the newcomer into the seat opposite him, continuing. “As much as I would love to keep up this little discussion, I have some business to attend to at the moment and I doubt you would be interested.”</p><p>“For once, I believe you.” Ivy smirked at him, ignoring Nygma completely as she was prone to do. “Feel free to drop dead.” She added cheerfully before turning and marching to the other side of the room, taking a seat near Dent who was poorly attempting to hide his interest in the exchanges of the other rogues behind a large newspaper.</p><p>“Business?” Nygma raised a brow as he seated himself opposite Crane. “Since when do we conduct civilised business?”</p><p>“When it suits us.”</p><p>“Valid point.” Crane conceded, steepling his fingers below his chin as he set into his pitch. “But my business involves that little side project of yours.”</p><p>“The cryptocurrency?”</p><p>“What?” Narrowing his eyes, Crane did not even know what that was. “No.”</p><p>“The nightclub?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“The aquar-”</p><p>“Goddamn it, Nygma. The real estate.”</p><p>“Ahh,” leaning back, Nygma matched his position with a wry grin, “and what, exactly do you need?”</p><p>“I need a new base of operations, one capable of withstanding my various experiments and potentially housing a guest for an extended period of time.”</p><p>“Oh, Jonathan Crane, you sly old dog.” Nygma grinned, forever unable to resist a goad. “Things moving fast for you and that special little lady?”</p><p>“Hilarious as always.” Crane deadpanned. “Can you do it?”</p><p>“As much as I would love to give you a new home, Crane, I have a very strict policy of not renting any of my personal spaces out to known criminals, as ironic as that may seem, but I can give you the number for a truly excellent estate agent who I am certain you will find more than satisfactory.”</p><p>“Are you serious?”</p><p>“As a heart attack. However, seeing as you asked so politely, I have recently acquired a new two-bedroomed home on the outskirts of Gotham South. Closest neighbours are five minutes away and the home possesses both a security system and a large basement.”</p><p>“Sounds ideal. Price?”</p><p>“Twelve months of planned attack locations and three vials of toxin antidote. Make is six vials and I will create a full new identity for you to pay amenities and bills with vastly reduced difficulty.”</p><p>“Acceptable.” </p><p>Pushing his body forwards, Crane took Nygma’s hand in his own, tactfully keeping his broken wrist close to his chest, and shook it firmly. Verbal contracts were all the rogues could depend on and in situations where they were not pitted against each other they were worth their weight in gold. To betray a fellow rogue for no good reason created a ripple effect which could be felt for months after the act.</p><p>“Chess?” Nygma inquired, indicating the nearby board with a lazy hand.</p><p>Crane nodded his consent.</p><p>Saturday 5:00pm</p><p>Breakfast within the asylum enjoyed the muted peace of inmates who were still adjusting to life after a long night of medication. It was hard to build aggression and chaos when your blood was tainted with sedatives which were strong enough to allow the staff to relax as the darkness of night passed. </p><p>Breakfast was usually peaceful. </p><p>Quiet.</p><p>Organised.</p><p>Dinner possessed no such decorum.</p><p>Chaos was king and Crane grit his teeth at the noise as he narrowly avoided being barrelled into by a sprinting inmate, two guards hot on his tail, as he collected his dinner tray.</p><p>“GRAB HIM, DAVIE!”</p><p>“YOU GRAB HIM YOU PRI-”</p><p>A short yelp followed by several grunts indicated that the inmate had indeed been caught but Crane did not spare the ruckus a glance. The bolts which secured the rows of metal tables to the floor occasionally caught a glint from the sharp, fluorescent lighting overhead as he dragged his tray to the nearest empty table. The edges of the tables had been tactfully shaven down and curved to ensure that no sharp edged were left available to the inmates for any nefarious purpose. The linoleum on the floor had the sheen of a flooring which had been recently cleansed of carnage.</p><p>“Good evening, Doctor Crane.” A soft voice.</p><p>Glancing up, Crane was surprised by his guest but quick to cover it.</p><p>“Arnold Wesker,” Crane blinked once at him, “good evening.”</p><p>“May I join you?”</p><p>“If you wish.” Narrowing his gaze as the unthreatening man took position by his side, Crane could not fathom why Wesker would initiate conversation. He could count on one hand the interactions they had shared through their work. “And will Mr. Scarface be joining us tonight?” He added, prodding for information.</p><p>“No.” Weskers’ pale eyes took on a sudden sheen. “Mr. Scarface is not allowed to be with me when we get put in the asylum. I worry for him.”</p><p>“Worry? Why?” Perking up, Crane could smell blood like a shark and he immediately transformed his expression into one of concern as he sank into a familiar, predatory role.</p><p>“Anything could happen to him if I’m not there. He’s not too big or strong.” Wesker fretted his hands and Crane could feel his bouncing leg sending vibrations through the table. “I’m scared they’ll hurt him.”</p><p>As much as he would admit to enjoying some of the more theatrical aspects of his work, it was undeniable that sometimes a subtle approach could produce fantastic results with very little effort.</p><p>“Of course,” Crane soothed, “of course. But then again, with you trapped in the asylum it would be really difficult to know if he needed you. I mean, they could be breaking him apart right now.”</p><p>Weskers’ eyes widened, and Crane could see it. The fear. It flickered through the puppeteer’s expression like flashes from a camera and Crane took each one in with satisfaction.</p><p>“No!”</p><p>“Or setting him alight.”</p><p>“Oh, they CAN’T.” </p><p>The fretting become more frantic, his hands reddening with the friction as Wesker swung his head around as though looking for someone to help.</p><p>“They can.”</p><p>“Leave the poor bastard alone.” Dropping into the seat across from Wesker, Harvey Dent made his presence known with a resounding thud as his large frame caused the table to shudder. “You’re a real piece of shit, Crane.” He spat with thinly veiled contempt.</p><p>“Ahh, Dent. Just the disgraced former city official I wanted to see.” Ignoring Dent’s eye twitch at his disrespect, Crane turned back to Wesker. “You can leave now.”</p><p>Jumping in place as though shocked, Wesker followed the instructions like a trained pup as he shot to his feet and quickly disappeared from sight.</p><p>Watching him go, Crane made a quick mental note to push further on their next encounter.</p><p>“I have nothing to say to you, freak.” Dent shrugged, his broad shoulders pushing at the thin jumpsuit. “I just wanted to ruin your twisted fun.”</p><p>“I actually have a proposition for you.” </p><p>A flash of suspicion cross Dent’s features as he narrowed his eyes and cocked his remaining eyebrow in disbelief.</p><p>“You want something from me? Are you kidding?”</p><p>“Unfortunately, no.” Crane pursed his lips to a thin line. “I was recently, let’s say, ‘let down’ by an acquaintance who I am aware you have had dealings with previously.”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>Crane provided the name.</p><p>“Hrrm,” Dent ran a scarred hand across his jaw as he considered his options, “yeah I know him. Little bastard stole some money from me and scarpered a few years back.”</p><p>“Do you know where I could find him?”</p><p>“I could.” Dent shrugged. “I know who to ask.”</p><p>“Do it and I will compensate you for the information.”</p><p>“Money? You’re going to pay me?!” Dent’s laughter was a rich baritone and the volume of it drew more than one curious glance which Crane was quick to discourage with a simple glare. “You don’t have any money, Crane. Everyone knows you’re broke as shit.” Harvey continued, looking far too amused for his own good.</p><p>Crane’s brow furrowed but he did not rise to the, unfortunately accurate, accusation.</p><p>“If you would prefer something other than monetary gain then I could offer you some insight?” Crane offered, tone honeyed, as he fought to regain control of the conversation. “For example, we could discuss and address that constant underlying fear which tells you that you’ve sunk so low since your acid attack that you’re nothing more than the scum which you used to convic-”</p><p>“Finish that sentence and i’ll blow a hole in you with my magnums.” The whites of Dent’s knuckles could be seen as he tightened his fist against the table.</p><p>Typical response.</p><p>“Can I count on your assistance then?” Mindful of his broken wrist, Crane subtly dipped the afflicted limb lower to make it less of a target should Dent choose to attack.</p><p>Dent, for whatever reason, did not and instead settled on a verbal response.</p><p>“Get fucked.”</p><p>Again, typical response.</p><p>Saturday 10:00pm</p><p>“Visitor, Crane.”</p><p>Dragged from his readings by one of the guards, Crane afforded him an irritated glare and was pleased to see him swallow nervously. His discussion with Dent had not went to plan but that was always a high possibility. Dent was uncomfortable around him as he knew that Crane was fascinated at the divide within him and how it manifested in his psyche.</p><p>Crane was also aware that Dent was one of the city officials who had lobbied to have him served with the death penalty early in his career as a criminal. A potentially sad end for such a promising career in educational criminality and Crane had never forgotten the slight.</p><p>So, all-in-all, not the best conditions for a good working relationship.</p><p>“Visitor?” Crane enquired, fixing the guard with a pointed look as he was escorted from his cell and led towards one of the interrogation rooms.</p><p>The guard ignored him.</p><p>Adjusting his wrist within the makeshift sling he had created with the fabric from one of his thin pillowcases, Crane considered requesting some more medication for the dull ache which was refusing to leave his joint but the thought was driven from his mind as he entered the interrogation room.</p><p>“Crane.” A hoarse grumble greeted him as he entered.</p><p>“Come to break my other wrist?” Crane growled back.</p><p>To his credit, Batman did not flinch at the insinuation.</p><p>“Where are your remaining chemicals?” No apparent time for pleasantries, Batman immediately made his business known. “The invoice for your shipment shows that you received at least three times as many supplies as you used in the office attack.”</p><p>“Why should I tell you?” Crane settled his expression into pure contempt, straightening his spine to stand at his full impressive height, knowing that he did not intimidate the man before him but still wanting to demonstrate strength.</p><p>“Over ten people had to be admitted to Gotham General,” Batman hissed, slamming his gloved fists against the flimsy metal table in the centre of the room “luckily, they were administered with anti-toxin before any real damage could be done. You lost, Crane.”</p><p>The human vocal cords were a glorious thing and over the years he had discovered that if enough people were subjected to his toxin in quick succession that their screaming would often form its own melody. From shrill to hoarse, they would eventually settle into a rhythm, a devil’s cacophony, until they succumbed to the waiting darkness.</p><p>He was no Mozart, but he was a maestro in his own right and those office workers had performed as finely as any orchestra.</p><p>“Did I?” Crane smirked. “Then why don’t I feel like I did?”</p><p>“Where. Are. The. Chemicals?” Each word was punctuated with a solid step towards his position, but Crane held his ground as Batman advanced towards him.</p><p>“I cannot remember,” Crane enunciated back, “the pain medication for my wrist is dulling my recollection.”</p><p>Lips curling into an unpleasant smile, Crane gestured to his broken joint.</p><p>“Take him back to his cell.” Batman growled at the guard by the door, clearly unhappy with his lack of success. “He’s not going to cooperate.”</p><p>x-x-x-x-x</p><p>Keeping his gaze trained on the floor as he was led back through the asylum, Crane considered his next move. He had established a new residence through Nygma, Dent had been unwilling to offer any assistance, and the Bat was aware of the existence of his surplus chemicals. There were too many players on the board for him to consider at the moment, but he allowed his thoughts to drift between them. It was not until he was back inside his cell that he glanced up. Only to be met with the sight of-</p><p>“Get out.” He demanded sharply.</p><p>“Do you think I get any say in this?” Nygma retorted from his position on the newly installed upper cot.</p><p>The asylum cots had been designed in such a way that if the asylum was to become overcrowded then a second cot could be installed at a height and secured into place, almost like bunk bed.</p><p>Crane, understandably, hated it.</p><p>“I don’t care. Get out, now.”</p><p>“My cell is no longer available, or I would happily fight for it.” Nygma again protested. “Do you think I want to share a space with a monster such as yourself? Then again,” he added after a moment, “I would certainly prefer you over the alternative.”</p><p>“Why? Who has been moved into your cell?” Crane inquired, curiosity winning over rage.</p><p>“Pyg.”</p><p>Crane paused. “Ah.”</p><p>Lazlo Valentin.</p><p>Professor Pyg.</p><p>He was one of the few rogues who were prohibited from sharing a cell with another. While initially showing no violence towards a previous cellmate, Pyg had snapped one night and used a scalpel to commit terrible acts of violence against the sleeping inmate. Even someone as stoic as Crane had to confess that the gossip that spread about that incident was…particularly unpleasant.</p><p>Nygma was the first to speak up.</p><p>“Did that poor soul eventually perish?”</p><p>“No.” Crane answered, twisting his shoulder slightly to alleviate the pressure on it. “As far as I heard the doctors were able to save one of his testicles.”</p><p>“Christ.” Nygma blanched for a moment before smirking slightly. “Did you hear the rumours about where he smuggled the scalpel in via?”</p><p>“I dread to think.” Crane deadpanned as he dropped into his cot. Now unable to see Nygma, he sighed his annoyance once again.</p><p>“According to sources, he smuggled it in via one of his lower orifices and I also heard it was not the traditional one. I just hope he had a cap on it, that or he knows a good urologist.”</p><p>“Christ.” Echoing Nygma’s earlier words, Crane tucked a thin arm over his eyes to block out the remaining light and, hopefully, Nygma’s twitterings.</p><p>Sunday 4:00am</p><p>It was the breathing that dragged him from his sleep.</p><p>Ragged and broken, there was no denying the distress which was held within and it took Crane a moment to place it.</p><p>Nygma.</p><p>He briefly amused himself by considering picking up his pillow and using it to put the other man out of his misery but elected to ignore that impulse in favour of believing that the irritating genius would uphold his half of their deal.</p><p>That said, what kind of scientist would he be to deny the opportunity for some fieldwork when it was presented to him.</p><p>Under previous doses of toxin, Nygma had demonstrated a clear fear of his father and was verbally inclined to protest his innocence of an accusation of ‘cheating’. His reactions were most likely the residual trauma of physical and emotional abuse suffered as a child, which also lent explanation to his intense narcissism and lack of impulse control. </p><p>Boring, yet easy to exploit. </p><p>Dragging himself from his cot as he prepared to begin some subtle verbal manipulations while his cellmate slept, Crane caught sight of the small analogue clock which hung directly opposite his cell and was amused to note that it had been just over a full day since his admittance to the asylum.</p><p>A full day in Arkham.</p><p>Never a dull moment to be had.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>